Harry Potter and the Glass Something
by Jewel Scarab
Summary: This is probably the most random, insane story you will ever read, so just slow down, take a deep breath, and hold on for the ride of your life.
1. Default Chapter

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A/N This story was written for the mere purpose of making someone laugh. I have an annoyingly dry, sarcastic sense of humor, and you just may not get this. That's ok, but if you leave a review (which you better) don't tell me I've repeated things or something is completely random. I know. That's the point. It is random, I repeat things on purpose, and it is supposed to be so ludicrous, you laugh. Which goes back to my first point. Meh heh….

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Requisite Disclaimer: Look, this is FANFICTION so we can all conclude that I own

nothing except my creativity, so let's cut the yap and get on with story.

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	2. Just the first chapter thing I'm not cr...

HARRY POTTER AND THE GLASS SOMETHING

THE PART SORT OF LIKE A CHAPTER ONE EXCEPT IT'S NOT SO ORGANIZED AND IS REALLY JUST RANDOM STUFF THAT BEGINS THE WHOE STORY

In an ordinary kitchen, in an ordinary house (number four Privet Drive), in an ordinary neighborhood, in an ordinary town, a skinny, dark-haired, almost un-nerdy nerdy boy with very round glasses was in the middle of a rather long pause above the wet floor he was supposed to be scrubbing with a worn brush, his eyes closed, a small smile set upon his relaxed face as though he were experiencing a dream of the pleasant variety -- the kind where you smash your retarded alarm clock when it cuts through your dream at the least opportune moment, and you lie there afterwards in a kind of post-fantasy daze and think _why did that freaking thing have to go off just then?_ Suddenly, the alarm-clock thing happened to the stupefied boy, except it wasn't an alarm clock that snapped him out of his trance. It was a television program. Unfortunately for the scruffy boy, the television was in the next room, so smashing it to smithereens was entirely out of the question, so he opted for crinkling his nose and staring daggers at the open door which allowed the sound to freely come through, as though little laser beams could shoot from his eyes and melt the TV. He glared in that intense manner for a few moments, until the obnoxious theme music to some show had died down a bit. Feeling that his laser beams had successfully completed their mission, or resignedly ignoring the disruptive noise, take your pick, he returned to his scrubbing; a fruitless task as the floor was entirely spotless, including the area being raked so desperately by the brush.

Apparently, the scrubbing was a bit too desperate, as the unknown TV audience in the next room demanded that, "Harry Potter be a bit quieter!! I can't hear the bloody program!"

Indistinguishable mumbling by Harry Potter would have been heard, if it had been distinguishable, but as it wasn't, the birds chirping ever so lamely on a tree branch by the open window only heard something that sounded somewhat like mumbling, but couldn't really tell because it was so indistinguishable.

Harry clambered to his feet and closed the door, resisting the extraordinarily strong urge to slam it, and turned to the window, where the birds were chirping ever so lamely, and sighed, resting his head on his hand, which was connected to his elbow, which was resting on the windowsill by the tree branch with the birds.

"Stupid Dursleys and their stupid television. Ruined my dream."

The birds, who had been listening to Harry's griping animatedly, chirped a response Harry seemed to understand, or perhaps just pretended to. They were, of course, still sitting on the tree branch by the open window, where Harry's elbow, connected to his arm, which in turn was connected to his hand, was resting, and their chirped response was rather lame.

"What was the dream about?" He repeated, or simply fabricated that he repeated, an action that clashed with the entire ordinary setting and atmosphere of his present location. Believe you me, a clean kitchen is not out of place in an ordinary house, in an ordinary neighborhood, in an ordinary town, on an ordinary day. Even on unordinary days, clean kitchens are not so unusual.

As ordinary as the kitchen, the house, the neighborhood, and the town were, Harry didn't seem so in comparison. For starters, he had a scar that greatly resembled a lightening bolt on his forehead, and he was talking to birds, or pretending to talk to birds. Also, he was scrubbing a clean floor. Most ordinary people just don't do that. In fact, most ordinary people don't scrub dirty ones.

"What was the dream about?" He repeated his supposed repetition. "Can't tell you that," he said in a maddening I-know-something-you-don't-know-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah voice. Not that the birds really cared. Or maybe they did. I am willing to bet, however, that someone out there doesn't. And more power to you.

The lame chirping of the birds' response sounded so like lame chirping, any ordinary person would not have thought anything about it, but since it has been asserted that Harry is not ordinary, the silly grin that flitted across his face was not so unordinary or unexpected for an unordinary person when listening to lame chirping of birds, particularly birds on a tree branch by an open kitchen window.

"Because, then my wish won't come true."

More ordinary, lame chirping from the birds on the tree branch by the open window. (I hear redundancy is good for the brain. Good for the brain. Good for the brain.)

"Yes, I did say I was dreaming. That's because I was."

By golly, those birds chirped some more.

"Well, a dream is wish. Sort of, I guess. Here, it sounds better when I sing the song."

Harry Potter (you know, the unordinary boy with the lightening bolt scar who has been talking to birds for the most part of this story) climbed onto the kitchen table, which easily held his rather light weight, clasped his hands dramatically in front of his chest, closed his eyes, and began to sing in a curiously

soft voice for a fifteen year old boy.

The birds, meanwhile, were no longer on the branch by the open window, but had bravely flown into the room, resting on various pieces furniture, for the full effect of the song.

_"A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep."_

He paused for breath. Apparently, this unordinary boy named Harry Potter was still a little winded from his furious scrubbing. On the floor in the ordinary kitchen to boot.

_"In dreams you will lose your heartaches. Whatever you wish for, you keep."_

More gasping for breath. Really takes away from the drama of the song.

_"Have faith in your dreams and someday, your rainbow will come smiling through."_

The sun, unusually golden, was streaming in through that same old open window where the birds used to be, caressing the messy brown hair upon Harry's head, the birds themselves unusually attentive, the sky annoyingly blue and clear, and the entire atmosphere sickeningly Disney-esque.

_"No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish…"_

(Duhn, duhn, duhn, duhn!!)

_" will…"_

Harry lifted his eyebrows and widened his eyes dramatically. The birds, meanwhile, were about to wet their little feathers from anticipation.

_"come…"_

Prepare thyself for a serious glass-shattering pitch. Who knew Harry had it in him?…

" **_TRUE_**--"

"--LESS IS MORE!!! LESS IS MORE!!! IT'LL BE YOUR FRIEND FOR SURE!! YOU SEE NOW LESS IS MORE!!! LESS IS MORE!!! WITH SHARMAN ULTRA, LESS IS MORE!!!"

The sudden outburst of a toilet-paper commercial broke through Harry's song (rather embarrassing if you think about it), and with a sigh of long suffering, he hopped off the table and began to clean up the water that had puddled on the pale tile floor, the whole magical aura of the moment completely, utterly, wonderfully destroyed. (Please fight the urge to laugh maliciously.) The birds twittered out of the room, not to the branch, but somewhere off into the bright blue sky, which seemed ordinary enough to the naked eye. Even to the eye with glasses, like Harry's, it seemed ordinary. Probably because it was ordinary, just like the town, the nieghborhood, and the house it blanketed.

Harry was left all alone in the now dull kitchen. Or so it appeared to anyone standing on their feet like an ordinary person would, except of course if you were an ordinary child, which we all know crawl on their hands and knees like Simba or a pink pony, depending on the gender and interests of the child, in which case the term "ordinary" is completely irrelevant, but the point is, had anyone been on hands and knees in the kithen, the rather unordinary (which is indeed relevant) activity of the mice would have likely been noticed, as Harry, who was on the floor, regardless of his unordinary state, did in fact see unordinary mice.

The most remarkable unordinary aspect of the mice was the fact that they wore brightly colored clothes, and walked on their two back feet rather than on all fours like ordinary children pretending to be Simba or a pink pony. Or purple. Or blue. Or yellow. Or green. Pink merely seemed the most trite color to use, and therefore the most amusing. Green ponies just really aren't that funny. They're sick.

The other noticeable unordinary-ness of the mice was that they were gathering up crumbs in quaint little wagons about the size a wagon would be for a mouse, which is pretty small indeed. One little mouse, with super big ears and a yellow raincoat, was attempting to open the refridgerator. Honestly. Mice these days….

Harry slithered on his jean knees over to where the mouse was struggling with the maddeningly ginormous door, and tapped its little yellow back with the index finger of his right hand. The mouse jumped, quite spooked, and covered his teeny weeny mouth with his teeny weeny paws to stifle his unmanly screech. (It was rather obvious the mouse was a boy, in case you were wondering, because he had no pink bows on his tail or in his ears, and all unordinary mice wear pink bows in the tails or ears if they are female.)

"What are you doing?"

The rain-coated mouse just gaped at Harry, its teeny weeny mouth still covered by its teeny weeny paws.

"It's all right. I talk to birds. Surely I can talk to mice, too."

The mouse looked around furtively as though he was not about to be caught dead talking to a human, then squeaked out something in his little voice that was so soft, Harry had to tilt his ear closer to hear properly.

"M-my, n-name's T-timothy. Timothy Churchmouse."

"Well, Timothy," Harry replied softly, a very considerate thing to do, for mice have highly sensitive ears. "My name's Harry, Harry Potter, and I'm a wizard."

"EVIL FIEND!!!!"

Harry jumped back, surprised at the volume that minuscule creature's voice could reach (_he must be in the choir_, thought Harry).

"BACK I SAY!" The mouse positioned himself so that he looked like a minature Chinese Ninja, except he wasn't a ninja, wasn't Chinese, and was wearing a yellow raincoat which was hardly stealthy or menacing, but the point is he sort of looked like one, that is, if you used a great deal of imagination and squinted your eyes.

"HI-YAH!!" The mouse leapt at Harry, bringing down his little furry arm, covered by the yellow raincoat, stiff as a board, his little hand completely straight, and attempted to karate-chop Harry's finger, which was resting, along with the rest of his hand, on the floor. It also happened to be his left hand.

Seeing that his stealthy karate-chop move had no real affect upon Harry, other than causing him to be puzzled, Timothy quickly decided on more barbaric means of attacking the enemy, namely biting Harry's finger with his sharp little mouse teeth.

"OW! What'd you do that for you little _censored _!??!!?!" Temper, temper.

"CHURCH MICE DO NOT TALK TO WIZARDS!!!!!! YOU ARE EVIL!!!!!" With that, Timothy Churchmouse, who, strangely enough, was in a house, not a Church, ran off squeaking into the wall. Well, more accurately, a hole in the wall, as he could not pass through solid objects, abnormal as he was. I mean, what _normal_ mice wear raincoats _inside _when it's not even raining? Geez.

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There's "chapter" one. So what do you think? 


	3. Another chapter following the first one

THE PART THAT IS SORT OF LIKE A CHAPTER TWO

Cradling his finger, which was bleeding profusely, Harry quickly wrapped a paper towel around it to serve as a bandage, the blood dyeing it a crimson red. As he struggled to make the crude bandage stay on, another little mouse popped out from one of the cracks beneath the cabinets, invisible to the human eye, or the eye of anything other than a mouse's eye, although it is a safe bet that bug's eyes could see the cracks, too. Always make safe bets, by the way. The irony is, it's not really a bet, or a risk, if it's safe. So never mind.

This particular mouse was wearing a maroon sweater that looked like it was hand knitted, which is understandable since mice factories probably do not exist --although that is _not _a safe bet-- and it had a gold letter "R" in stitched the center. He (it wasn't wearing any pink bows) was a peculiar mouse, not only for his sweater and the fact that he walked on two feet instead of four like a little child pretending to be Simba or a pink pony, but he had a small tuft of orange-red (like a crayon) hair on top of his head. Ordinary mice DO NOT have tufts. Just set up mouse traps around a house and look at your catch up close and you will see that, if they are not wearing clothes or bows, they WILL NOT have tufts of hair on top of their heads in any color, but especially NOT orange-red. Like a crayon. While crayons are ordinary, crayon-colored hair is not, unless it's in a coloring book, but there are exceptions to every rule, and two dimensional people in coloring books aren't really real, unless you count the fact you can touch, see, and smell them , but you will find that the touch reminds you of paper, the appearance so like paper, and the scent peculiarly paper-esque, and since it doesn't really matter what kind of crayon-colored hair a two-dimensional person on a piece of paper has, this whole sentence has just been a waste of time and space, unless you were sincerely unaware that two-dimensional characters on paper were only real because they were on paper, which is real, and if that's the case, I'm sorry I ruined your life. At least you still have The Easter Bunny to believe in.

The little marooned-sweatered mouse seemed unafraid of Harry, or maybe he was just brave, or may be he was distantly related, because he approached the towering five foot six giant without hesitation and tugged on the hem of Harry's jeans rather urgently, as though he wanted his presence known. Harry glanced down, flashing a toothy grin (that is a weird description, really… toothy?), and leaned his head closer to converse with the orange-red tufted vermin. Well, vermin is rather harsh, since he was kind of a cute little thing, with a pointy little nose, glossy whiskers, teeny weeny paws, and a tail that kind of twitched and wagged like a dog's, except it belonged to a mouse, so it was thin and long and was covered in mouse fur rather than dog fur. The difference between mouse fur and dog fur is mouse fur is a lot shorter and is usually found on mice, and dog fur is usually longer because it's on a bigger animal (dog's are bigger than mice, generally) and it is, of course, usually found on dogs. I explain these things because you just never know what kind of random stupid people will read this.

Just as Harry was about to open his mouth, he sneezed, which, ironically, opened his mouth, although much wider than he had intended, but instead of spewing words of polite inquiry, the poor mouse was sprayed with… well, you know, the "s" word. NO, not THAT "S" word, not THE BIG "S" word! I meant _snot_. Good Lord, I typed it.

Well anyway, the mouse just stood there, his arms ( I guess that's what they would be called since that's how they were used) stuck stiffly out in front of him, his paws hanging limply, his eyes and mouth closed in utter disgust, his whiskers quivering as though he were trying very hard not to completely freak out. Harry, blushing with embarrasment for "s"-ing up the little creature, pulled something that greatly resembled a stick, although this one was smoothly polished, out of his back pocket. Turned out the sticky-thing was a wand. Hey, don't fairies use wands? Oh, don't tell me…

Dear Miss Allen,

The _Bureau of Journalists _would like to inform you that Harry Potter is indeed NOT a fairy, and would appreciate it if you would leave such disgusting innuendo completely out of your stories.

We have also been painfully informed that you have used the "S" word. We hope, by now, you realize the gravity of your utilization of such a term, as it is quite a repulsive one, not to mention juvenile.

Should such misuse of terms or expressions transpire again, we will have no other alternative than to send representatives of the _Bureau_ to destroy your computer.

Hoping you are mentally stable.

Yours sincerely,

Lexis A. Buse

IMPROPER USE OF WORDS OFFICE  
_Bureau of Journalists_

How embarrassing. I hope you just skimmed over that.

At any rate, I think you will find Harry Potter's life and his dealings with the mouse in the maroon sweater, who has been so elaborately described for forever and a day, than my little brain blurp there.

Well, anyway, the STICKY-THING used by HARRY THE BOY and not SOME OTHER WINGED CREATURE WITH GLITTERY STUFF ON IT AND BIG EYES AND A TWINKLING VOICE AND OTHER RANDOM STUFF, quickly got rid of the GOOEY SUBSTANCE on the LITTLE FURRY CREATURE. Oh, wait. I wasn't in trouble for the word _mouse_.

"What is it, Ron?" Harry quietly asked. His low volume, once again, was quite thoughtful. And now you know the mouse's name, so I can stop using the word mouse so often, even though I know redundancy is good for readers who often forget what we writers have written earlier on in the story.

"Harry, Harry," he sqeaked excitedly, boucing up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down. It would be like watching a tennis ball, except vertically.

"HARRY, THERE'S NEW MOUSE IN A TRAP UNDER THE STAIRS IT'S A GIRL COME SEE SHE HAS NO CLOTHES!!!!!" Now we know why -- wait, I could get in trouble for that thought.

"Calm down," Harry giggled. Yes, giggled. "Now, where did you say he was?

"NO! **SHE**!!!! She's in the cupboard under the stairs!!! Quick, this way!"

"Under the stairs? Aunt P must've been setting traps in my old --wait 'til I --she'll pay for this --bloody woman….yak yak yak…" Harry continued his muttered threats the whole short way to the cupboard beneath the stairs, and little Ron had to jump out of the way of the door Harry passionately yanked open, before flinging himself onto the floor. The dude really likes mice. He should work in a pet shop, or something.

Harry found himself face to face with the furriest mouse he believed he had ever seen in his entire life, its great big brown eyes glossy from unshed tears, its tail trapped beneath the metal doohicky that traps mice tails on mouse traps. You know what I'm talking about. Ron peeked bashfully from behind Harry's arm, obviously pleased he had brought someone who could and would save the distressed damsel with the trapped tail, but too shy to strut up to the mouse in question.

There was no doubt it was female, however, as a pink ribbon that was probably once tied into a bow at one point drooped tiredly at the tip of the tail caught in that metal thing, whatever you would call it. Scuttle would most likely dub it the _MiggyWhopper_, or something stupid like that.

Harry gently lifted the _MiggyWhopper_ off the little trembling mouse's tail, which was painfully crumpled from the _MiggyWhopper_ that had been squishing it only moments before. She let out a grateful squeak and softly caressed her _MiggyWhopper_-squished tail, the faded pink ribbon still hanging limply from the tip of it, rather looking as though it would slip off entirely at any moment it would slip off.

"What's your name?"

The mouse looked up at Harry in surprise, then launched off into her response.

"MynameisHermionebutyoucancallmeMioneforshortifyouwantwhatonearthisamousetrapinhereforIthoughtthishousewasmousefriendlyyouknowibetIcouldfindabookthatsaysit'sillealtoavemousetrapsinamousefriendlyhousemicedeserveequalrightsjustlikeothercreaturesI--"

Ron quickly over came his bashfullness and unashamedly came out from his hiding place behind Harry, both hanging their mouths wide enough for a bird or a weasel or a salmon to fit through. They weren't used to girls apparently, otherwise they wouldn't be standing there like they had never a heard a girl talk before. Girls are cool even if they do talk a lot. I know, I am one.

Hermione, as she called herself, continued jabbering away, and would have jabbered away even more than she had already jabbered away until there was nothing left to jabber away, if Harry had not put a really big finger to her little mouse mouth, silencing her, because she knew the universal sign language for silence because we all learn that a finger to the mouth means "hush" in Kindergarten. Ron blinked his eyes in that same kind of post-something daze that sort of resembled the post-fantasy daze Harry experienced at the very beginning of this story when he was jolted from his dream. See what I mean about forgetting what was written earlier in a story? Told ya.

No one can really blame Ron for what he did, or didn't do next. He just stared at Hermione instead of averting his eyes like a gentleman. I mean, c'mon, she was only wearing a little pink ribbon on the edge of her tail that was about to fall off, and what would you do if you were a guy mouse and…. never mind. Hermione blushed, naturally, except you couldn't see it even if you were looking really hard because she was a mouse with mouse fur (remember the difference between mouse fur and dog fur?) and you can't see blushes on mice. So maybe she didn't technically blush, but if she could, she would have, and that is the point I'm sort of trying to get across.

Harry noticed the awkwardness of the moment and did what any well-meaning wizard would; with a flick of his wrist and some cool smoke and shiny stuff (Not the kind some other winged creature with glittery stuff on it and big eyes and a twinkling voice some otther random stuff would have) and a pretty gnarly chime noise, Hermione had a pink skirt and white shirt, and her pink ribbon was neatly tied into a bow. She smiled gratefully at Harry, boy, wizard, and future pet-shop worker.

Just as Harry was about to begin a conversation with his new little friend, a nasty voice broke the pleasant quietness, although it didn't really matter because Harry was about to break it anyway by beginning a conversation with his new little friend, but this voice was nasty, and Harry's probably wasn't since he's the hero of this story and all.

"HARRY POTTER, COME DO SOMETHING FOR ME!!" The vagueness of the command was because the I suffer from W.O.D.D. (Writer's Originality Dificient Disorder.) Or maybe not. I just had a brain lapse there for a moment.

Harry sighed, not really wanting leave and do some stupid, random thing for Aunt Petunia. Petunia was Harry's aunt, and she was the one with the nasty voice because she's not the hero of this story. I think Petunia is a stupid name for an aunt; my dog's middle name was Petunia, and if it sounds bad for a dog you know it sounds bad for an aunt with a nasty voice.

"COMING!!!" Harry shouted back, after sighing. You silly. Harry may be a wizard, but that doesn't mean he can shout and sigh at the same time.

He turned back to Ron and Hermione, who had covered their big, Mickey-mouse ears with their teeny weeny paws while Harry had shouted back to Aunt Petunia, who was his aunt, as loud noises coming from someone so much larger than they sounder much louder than it did to the person who was bigger. I wouldn't be surprised if it sounded like a really loud noise, to them.

"Well, Ron, I'll leave you to get to know Hermione and show her around and stuff. See ya."

"By Harry," Ron said as one would when one knows one is about to do something extremely important --in one's own eyes, at least.

Hermione just waved. See, girls don't talk ALL the time!!!

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I don't know how much time I'll have to work on this, with school and all, but I hope to update promptly. Meantime... tell me what you think!! Please? 


	4. Chapter three I think it's called

THE PART THAT FOLLOWS THE PART THAT IS SORT OF LIKE CHAPTER TWO MAKING THIS PART SORT OF LIKE CHAPTER THREE OR SOMETHING

Harry crawled out from the cupboard (why is it called cupboard? Why not closet?) beneath the stairs, dusting himself off as the cupboard/closet beneath the stairs was a rather dusty place because no one bothered to dust it. The cupboard/closet had once been Harry's room when he was younger, but had since moved to the extra bedroom upstairs for reasons J. K. Rowling made perfectly clear in her books. So if you don't know, go read them and find out.

He peered into the living room, and upon seeing only Uncle Vernon, who happened to be Harry's uncle and the TV audience invisible to Harry while he had been in the kitchen, ambled to the stairs because it was obvious that Aunt Petunia was up there somewhere. So he walked up there. And then across the hall. Then stopped at a big foreboding door that seemed wider and darker and thicker than the others he had passed going across the hall. Of course, it could have merely seemed that way because there were no windows in the hall Harry walked across, making that particular door seem darker in its little far corner, and maybe the fact that he was about to listen to the nagging of his Aunt stupidly named Petunia had something to do with it. I am so glad I don't have an aunt named Petunia.

"_Come in_," an eerily deep voice snaked its way from beneath the crack of the door after Harry had knocked.

Harry opened the door and quietly he slipped silently into the room brimming with objects that were completely ordinary. There was, however, an object that immediately caught Harry's eye. It was not unordinary; rather, out of place in the way-too-tidy room that kind of resembled a hospital room. He gasped, as it was very familiar to him.

"You --You --You --YOU HAVE MY STAPLER!!!!!"

Indeed, a teeny weeny periwinkle stapler sat on the nightstand beside Aunt Petunia's bed, where the rogue herself lay, still in her pajamas, hair curlers in her hair, which is understandable, since hair curlers don't really work anywhere else; I know, I've tried. Um, just kidding.

"Yes," Aunt P said impassively, "I have your stapler."

"But, but, but MY stapler?"

"Yes. Your stapler. Your periwinkle stapler. Your Periwinkle stapler of doom."

"AHHH!!! MY PERIWINKLE STAPLER OF DOOM!!!!!"

"YES!!!! YES YES HAHAHAHHA!!!!"

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!"

"YESSSS!!!!"

"NOOOOO!!!!!!!"

"YESSSSS!!!!!"

"NOOOO!!!!!!!"

"YESS!!!!"

"BUT IT'S MY… MY _PRECIOUS_!!!!!"

"I don't care!! And you can't have it back unless…."

Harry stopped protesting for a moment to listen, which was quite thoughtful of him since the story was becoming somewhat boring with such limited dialogue.

"Unless, what?"

"Unless you --"

But Harry never found out exactly what is was he must do, for another "NO!" broke what would have been silence had Harry and Aunt Petunia not been talking just then, causing both Harry and Aunt Petunia to jump, one of the hair curlers in Aunt Petunia's hair falling completely out of her hair.

"NOOOOOO!!!!!!!" (Told you.)

Aunt Petunia snatched a fuzzy pink bathrobe with bunny ears on the hood and a pair of fuzzy pink bunny slippers, placing the fuzzy pink bathrobe with bunny ears on the hood over her pajamas, which, interestingly enough had pink bunnies on them and were satin, and the fuzzy pink bunny slippers on her feet so she could run downstairs with a completely coordinated ensemble lest one of the nosy neighbors peek in and see her wearing fuzzy GREEN bunny slippers with her very pink outfit.

Harry was quick behind Aunt P, right on her heels like a dog that is right behind someone's heels, except he wasn't on all fours like a dog, but on just two feet, since he only had two feet, and his hands were swinging like mad beside him so he couldn't have used them as an extra set of feet even if he wanted to. He nearly plowed her over, too, when she suddenly halted in the doorway of the living room, where, just a few minutes prior, Harry had left Uncle Vernon, the fat ugly man with the bushy mustache like my History teacher's, watching TV. Instead of finding the big V sitting like a duck on the big C (um… Couch…) watching the big T (Television), he was standing on the even bigger C (Carpet), his ugly face even more ugly as it twisted and distorted itself for some unapparent reason. He also kind of looked like an eggplant. You know, like purple and kind of mushy and gumpy like squash casserole.

"HARRY --I --WHAT IS --HOW DARE --WHEN DID --WHY…" Uncle Vernon struggled for words like a walrus struggling to climb out of pool, that is, if a walrus ever tried to get out of a pool, if it was even in a pool in the first place. Just pretend, ok?

"What, Vernon? What is it?" Aunt Petunias voice had strangely changed from being eerily deep to high pitched and whiny.

"I --HARRY --THAT PLACE --MY HARD EARNED MONEY…" Yeah. Think Walrus in the pool, again.

Apparently sick of being like a walrus stuck in a swimming pool, Uncle Vernon threw a letter at Aunt Petunia, then turned and began pacing back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Like watching a tennis ball in play, except much slower and way bigger and twice as lumpy. Aunt P caught the letter with ease and began reading it, her eyes going back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth across the page. Like people watching a tennis match, except she was reading, not watching a tennis match, but it was like that, and all. Harry read over her shoulder, his eyes doing that same back and forth thing. The English are really tennis-compulsive-obsessed, aren't they?

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been invited to the Masked Quidditch Tryouts where representatives for the top Quidditch professional teams will observe several scrimmage games. If you meet their particular standards, you could possibly be accepted to be on one of the teams.

The dates of tryouts are August 2 - August 6, and will be held at _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. If this is not a convenient time for you, we suggest you compromise your schedule as this is a once in a life-time opportunity.

All that we require that you bring is a reliable broomstick, a mask, two galleons, ten sickles and twenty-one knuts for admission, and, if you are underage, the signature of your parent/guardian.

Yours Sincerely,

_Somebody Someone_

INTERNATIONAL HEAD OF ALL THINGS QUIDDITCH

Harry would have been glowing, if it were possible, but as it isn't he just looked sort of like he could glow. Boo yeah!! Who was gonna be a professional Quidditch player? Harry was gonna be a professional Quidditch player!! Or maybe not.

"HARRY!! WHAT IS THIS?!?!?!" Uncle Vernon, who had found the rest of his vocabulary, snatched the letter from Aunt Petunia's vulture-like hands and was waving it under Harry's nose. A little too closely, maybe.

"OUCH!! YOU _censored_!!!!! YOU GAVE ME A PAPER CUT!!!!!"

"HARRY, YOU WILL NOT SAY _censored_ TO ME EVER!!!!"

"_The amoeba_."

Harry and Uncle Vernon paused mid-air in an extremely awesome _Matrix_ move, their feet completely off the ground, their hands stretched before them as though they were about to choke the other, and their mouths open in a slow-mo depiction of intense screaming, except no noise escaped them. Had Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon not been so dumbstruck by the random TV program, both would have been terrified to see the unordinariness of Harry and Vernon's aero-dynamics, and Harry would have simply choked his unaware Uncle, but those freaking amoebas were so dang flummoxing (sweet word, isn't it?).

"_The amoeba is a protozoan occurring in water and soil as a parasite, consisting especially of an indefinitely shaped mass of protoplasm…_"

The monotonous, yet mellowly enigmatic voice of the narrator had a hypnotizing effect on its listeners, as well as the animated illustrations blobbing around like Jello on the TV screen.

Uncle Vernon snapped out of it first, as he was the first one to fall to the ground, toppling on the carpeted floor just before Harry did, making him first. He made a dive, which turned out to be more of a belly-flop then anything, as he had a lot of belly to flop on, and quickly changed the channel with the remote. Uncle Vernon heaved, I mean _really_ heaved, himself to his feet, then turned to Harry, who was sitting on his bony little bottom on the floor.

"NOW," He growled like something that growls really scarily, except he sort of choked on his spit, turning his face more purple than it had already been, so it wasn't really all that effective, as far as intimidation goes. "WHERE WERE WE?"

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on something. Like, maybe he was thinking about what to say, or he was drawing confidence from his inner capybara, or maybe he just feel asleep, but whatever it was he sure concentrated hard. I mean, squinted his eyes and scrunched his forehead and wrinkled his nose; the whole enchalada. Suddenly, the channel changed again.

"_The amoeba_."

"NOOOO!!!!!!!"

"_The amoeba is a protozoan occurring in water and soil as a parasite, consisting especially of --"_

"CLICK!"

"--LESS IS MORE!!! LESS IS MORE!!! IT'LL BE YOUR FRIEND FOR SURE!! YOU SEE NOW LESS IS MORE!!! LESS IS MORE!!! WITH SHARMAN ULTRA, LESS IS MORE!!!"

Oooooookay….

"CLICK"

_"This is Bob. Bob is **happy**! Bob is happy because he decided to take…"_

"NOW, BOY, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS RUBBISH?"

"I --well, isn't it _obvious_?" He scoffed scoffingly.

"YOU RUDDY WELL KNOW I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR KIND!"

"Vernon, dear, be quiet! The neighbors might hear." Harry glanced over at Aunt Petunia and he was suddenly struck by how much she resembled a buck-toothed moose just then. Think Bullwinkle. Minus the antlers, of course.

"I DON'T CARE!! I WILL NOT PAY TO HAVE THAT BOY RUNNING AROUND THAT PLACE ALL SUMMER--"  
"You wouldn't have to pay--"

"MORE CONTACT WITH HIS KIND--"

_"Not only is Bob happy, but the **Mrs. **is happy, too…"_

"Vernon, I think by now that's unavoidable--"

"UNAVOIDABLE SHMOIDABLE!! HE--"

_"And now Bob's friend, Fred, is **happy**…"_

"It's not for very long either, just a few days and Quidditch--"

"DON'T SAY WORDS LIKE THAT IN MY HOUSE!!!"

"_Bob is **still** happy! **You** can be happy **too**! Just call this toll-free number…"_

"SOMEONE TURN OFF THE _censored_ TV!!!!!!!!!!"

"CLICK!" Dang. I wanted to hear more of the commercial.

"Now, I don't want to here more of this matter." Uncle Vernon had calmed down somewhat , and was no longer bellowing as though Harry were hearing impaired, which he probably was by this point. "You're not going and that's final."

"UncleVernonwaityouwouldn'thavetopayandthere'sthepossiblityICOULDDIEas  
QuidditchisaDANGEROUSsport." At the strategically enunciated words "die" and "dangerous" Uncle Vernon paused, just as Harry thought he would, and began to consider for a moment the possibilities. _Oh the possibilities. Harry dead? Marvalous_. The sicko.

Harry waited for the revisal of Uncle Vernon's answer, which was sure to come. And he waited. And waited. And waited. Waited. Waited. Apparently, Uncle Vernon did not think often and must have become lost in unfamiliar territory. Like, _really _lost. Like Simba in Pink Pony Land lost.

Finally, Uncle Vernon spoke, but in a way that suggested he was till half in the woods. "Dangerous you say? And, herumph, I wouldn't have to pay?"

"That's right. Wiz-- I mean, my type use different money than mug-- I mean, your type use. I know where to get some."

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia looked at each other. And it was quiet in the room. And stuff. I wonder how Bob and Fred are doing…

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!!!!" Guess who?

Harry was utterly, completely, perfectly shocked out of his little toe socks. He was so sure Uncle Vernon would concede as soon as he realized there was potential for Harry's death. But nooo…

"UPSTAIRS TO YOUR ROOM!!!!"

Suddenly, Harry heard a strange voice in his head that sounded somewhat like a little yellowish-green creature with big pointy ears and a robe. _Concentrate. Concentrate you must._

_Yes, but on what? _

_The Force binds us, surrounds us. Concentrate on it you must. _

Oh, what a load of crock. There's no such thing as a force.

A FORCE THERE IS!!!!!

NO THERE ISN'T!!!!!

The Force like duct tape it is.

HUH?!?!

A Dark side and Light side there is. Hold us all together it does.

What a weenie!!

"HARRY DID YOU HEAR ME OR NOT?!?!?!"

"I'm going," Herry mumbled, trudging up the stairs in a great show of martyrism, but could not keep the smile from his face as he thought what Uncle Vernon would have done had he known Harry had been talking to a strange voice inside his head.

* * *

Ok... chp. 3 Sorry if it wasn't that funny....


	5. Chapter four thingamabob yeah whatever

THE CHAPTER FOUR THINGAMABOB… YEAH WHATEVER

Harry threw himself onto the thing that was supposed to be a bed, but was more like a cot because it was so worn out. Even the blankets didn't really look like blankets; more like moth-eaten towels that had been stretched and hung out much too often to dry in the sunshine in the old fashioned-way of drying various fabric shapes. I mean, I wouldn't even dry my neighbor's pet gopher with one of the "blankets". Ok, my neighbor doesn't really own a gopher, but his ferret kind of looks like one. OK, that's a lie too, my neighbor owns a chihuahua, actually, but it might as well be a ferret or a gopher or a badger or something like that.

After Harry had landed safely on his back on the cot-like "bed", he let out one of the longest sighs ever heard before in history. I think he might have made Ripley's. I want to be in Ripley's for something. Like, maybe for making the longest chain out of staples. Or maybe for making the largest miniature model of the Black Forrest out of toothpicks. Or eating over a thousand tick-tacks in under an hour. One of these days...

Anyway, Harry sighed a sigh that was about the size of a sizeable hurricane or something, and about the time that he was finishing his sigh, mouse Ron and mouse Hermione wriggled into the room from somewhere. No one was really paying attention to where they came from, and since the important fact is that they were there and they did wriggle from wherever it is they came from, it doesn't really matter. Just know that they wriggled. And that they were there in Harry's room after Harry had sighed.

"Hey Harry!" The two mice said in unison. I think they rehearsed.

" 'lo Ron, Mione."

"What're you doing?"

"Sighing"

"Oh."

Awkward silence.

"Why?" Hermione squeaked.

"Because."

"Oh."

Awkward silence.

"Because why?" Hermione squeaked again. Mice generally squeak because they don't eat enough junk food to grease their jaw hinges. What that has to do with why their _voices_ squeak, I have no idea, but that's okay because I'm sure that you are just as stupid as I am. Um, sort of kidding.

"I feel like it."

"Oh."

Awkward silence. (You can tell I'm stalling until I can figure out what Harry should say.)

"Here," Harry finally broke the awkward silence by saying something that would break the awkward silence. "Read this. No wait, the words are too big, it would take you guys half a century. I'll just read it."

Somehow, in a way unbeknownst to the reader and the author (that would be me), Harry had retrieved the invitation to the masked quidditch tryouts from Uncle Vernon. How he did, you and I will probably never know. But that's fine with me.

So anyway, he read the invitation, Ron's un-greased jaw dropping about as far as a snakes jaw that can unhinge out of pure awe, while Hermione just crossed her little mouse arm things. I think she also would have raised an eyebrow, but mice don't have them, which stinks because I think mice would be cool with eyebrows.

"Wow, Harry! Are you gonna go?"

"No," Harry moaned. "Stupid Uncle Vernon won't let me."

"Oh, Harry, I'm sure you Uncle doesn't really mean that. I'm sure-"

SLAM! CLICK! LOCK! RATTLE! RATTLE! EVIL CHUCKLE OF SATISFACTION.

Harry turned sardonically to Hermione.

"You were saying?"

"Never mind," she huffed.

Well, I'm going to skip a few days for lack of creativity and plus, now that Harry's locked in his room, I can't really write anything interesting about him in great detail, so I will sum up. Or paraphrase, or whatever it's called. Harry moped in his room for a couple of days, Ron and Hermione visited him occasionally, and Hedwig, who hasn't been mentioned so far in this story, did something. I don't know. Whatever owls do.

Now it was a few days later. Hermione sighed as she looked at the ceiling of the cupboard/closet beneath the stairs as though she could see straight through it into Harry's room. Several other unusual mice, all wearing some form of clothing or another, some with the tufts, others with pink bows, languished around the metal bucket Hermione sat on, their tails twitching and curly-cuing in a french-fry-like manner. That makes me hungry. Ron pitter-pattered into the cupboard/closet beneath the stairs and raised an imaginary eyebrow at the pathetic spectacle before his big mouse eyes.

"What's this?"

"Oh, Ron!Harry'sbeenlockedupfordaysandhe'llnevergettogotothemaskedquidditchtryoutsandhe

wantstoreallybad!"

Ron blinked for a few minute, trying to break down Hermione's sentence into comprehensible words that formed something remotely intelligible.

"Yeah, okay. But what does that have to do with everyone else?"

"RON!"

"What?"

"HE'S OUR FRIEND! FRIENDS HELP EACH OTHER! FRIENDS CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER! FRIENDS-"

"-Okay, okay! Sorry! Geez. Save me the motivational speech."

"Humph."

Silence. Not awkward however. Just a slightly deer-in-the-headlights-don't-know-what-comes-next-the-moment-for-something-momentous-has-been-ruined-by-bickering kind of silence.

"Now what?"

"Well," Hermione squinted at the wall as though that would provide an answer. "I think we sing now."

"SING! ALRIGHT!"

"Ron…"

"I know a GREAT one!"

"Ron…"

"Ahem… Ahem…"

"Ron…"

"NON NOBIS DOMINAE, DOMINAE. NON NOBIS DOMINAE! SED NOMINAE. SED NOMINAE. TU A DA GLORIA-"

"RON!"

"What?"

"Not that!"

"Why not?"

"IT'S LATIN!"

"So..?"

"It's not appropriate for the moment!"

"Okay, okay! Keep your whiskers on. I know a perfect one!"

"Oh?"

"Ahem… Ahem…"

"It's not Latin, is it?"

_"He's locked up, they won't let him out. Nooo… they won't let him out!"_

"RON!"

"What?"

"What do you think!"

"…Not appropriate?"

"Aren't you so smart."

"Well, what do you have in mind then?"

"I was thinking…"

"Wait, I know!"

"What?"

"_How do you solve a problem like the Dursleys? How do you catch a snitch and hold it tight? How do you find a word that means Dursley? A flobberworm! A blast-end screwt! A cat-bite! Many a spell you know you'd like to hex them! Many a spell to burn up their house! But how do you make them liberate? Poor Harry -he can't apparate! How do you help Harry when you're a mouse? Oh how do you solve a problem like the Dursleys-_"

"RON!"

"Not that one either, I suppose."

"Absolutely not!"

"Party pooper."

"Humph."

"Alright, I've got another one."

"Ron…"

"Ahem… Ahem…"

"Ron…"

_"Here they come, walkin' down the hall. The whole house shakes from… Ev'ry foot-fall. Hey, hey, they're the Dursleys! They're the Dursleys without a doubt! And they're too busy eating… To let poor Harry out!"_

"RON!"

"OH GOOD GRIEF! HOW 'BOUT WE JUST NOT SING! WILL THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY!"

"THERE'S NO NEED TO SHOUT AND WE **COULD** HAVE SUNG IF **YOU** HADN'T OPENED YOUR BIG MOUTH AND MADE ME FORGET WHAT IT WAS WE WERE **SUPPOSED **TO SING IN THE FIRST PLACE SO THIS IS ALL **YOUR FAULT**!"

"WELL -WELL -FINE THEN!"

"OKAY!"

The other mice, by this time, had scampered off somewhere else. I don't blame either, really. Angry mice can be scary.

"_Pardon me_," came a voice full of monotonous tranquility.

Ron and Hermione both turned quickly, for the voice was not like the other mouse voices they had heard before, as it didn't squeak, and sounded oddly foreign. What I mean by foreign is that the mouse probably came from some country other than Ron and Hermione's, which was different from the unknown mouse's. I know because I'm writing this and that's what I decided.

"Ohmygosh!" Hermione squeaked. "Master Quinn!"

Hermione's face, which was positively delighted, was a complete contrast to Ron's, which kind of resembled Sebastian's in the Little Mermaid.9; I mean, golf-ball sized eyes, mouth touching the floor; a look of complete and utter disbelief.

I can't blame Ron, really, for before him stood a little skinny brown mouse that appeared to be at least 70 in human years, with a thin black mustache that trailed to the floor, oddly calm, very black eyes, and…. a Hawaiian shirt and cowboy boots?

No… Ron rubbed his eyes. Blinked. Observed "Master Quinn". Rubbed his eyes some more, then blinked.

"Hermione, what?…"

"Ron, I'd like you to meet Master Quinn, my Karate teacher."

"You take KARATE?"

"Uh huh," she grinned proudly.

"_Ah… Mione," _Began Master Quinn as very peaceful Chinese music played in the background. Ron noticed the music played every time the strange mouse spoke. "_You were always good student."_

Hermione's grin widened until it was about the size of Rhode Island. Ron, meanwhile, was still staring at Master Quinn's shirt and shoes in wonder. Master Quinn noticed, which isn't so surprising as "subtle" isn't exactly Ron's middle name. I don't think it's his second cousin's middle name, either.

"_Ah… I see young master finds joy in Master Quinn's clothes."_

Oh. My. Gosh. A Chinese mouse wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cowboy boots who refers to himself in third person? Somebody's had too much sugar.

"Um…. Right."

"Come with me, Master Quinn. I'll give you a tour."

"_Ah… How nice, Mione_."

"You too, Ron. Come with us."

"Um, thanks but I-"

"_Yes… Master Ron come_."

"I think I-"

"RON!"

"OKAY!"

"_Please… be at peace."_

"Why?"

"**Ron**!"

"_It disturbs the environment for the sea turtles. They are endangered, you know_."

"Oh my giddy aunt…"

"Are they really, Master Quinn? I'm interested in liberation for house elves, but if sea turtles are in danger I could do something for them as well…"

"_How wonderful, Mione. Master Quinn help you."_

"Would you!"

"_Master Quinn always help sea turtles and students."_

"OH MY GIDDY AUNT!"

For the moment, Harry Potter's fate was forgotten, and the preservation of sea turtles (POST) had commenced.

* * *

Phew! Okay, there's another chapter. My apologies to all those people who the songs I used... Oh, I'm not sure I got the Latin right on Non Nobis... I haven't done Latin in forever...

PLEASE Review!


	6. Sea Turtles, Surpises and Other random s...

SEA TURTLES, SURPISES, RANDOM STUFF AND MAYBE MORE (AKA CHAPTER FIVE)

P.O.S.T. (Preservation Of Sea Turtles), had so consumed the time of Hermione and Master Quinn that little was spared to deliberate Harry's sad predicament, and Ron alone managed to visit the indignant prisoner, quite willingly in fact, as Hermione's new addiction bored him out of his little mouse wits and rather alarmed him, I believe. Between Hermione's frantic attempts to organize a union of support for the beloved turtles, and Master Quinn's calm approach to the situation, all the while clomping gracefully around in his little boots, Ron had a feeling that if he didn't sing as often as he did, he would go stark raving mad. Of course, Hermione hated his singing, and even more so hated his songs, so the two mice were quite at odds by the end of a week of musical tadpoles. I mean, sea turtles. Whatever.

Hermione's lack of encouragement of his possible career as a musician miffed Ron, but the final blow to his ego was when Hermione down right refused his one and only contribution to P.O.S.T.; a catchy little jingle that went something like this:

_They swim swim swim swim swim swim swim the ocean the whole day through! To swim swim swim swim swim swim swim is what they really like to do! It ain't no sin to swirl or spin, if you swim swim swim with a tail or a fin! In the sea! In the sea! In the sea! In the sea! Where some green-looking' turtles swim! They swim swim swim swim swim swim swim from early morn till night! They swim swim swim swim swim swim swim with all their turtle might! They lay their massive eggs on the shore, five white eggs , sometimes more, but they're dyin' -that's what we're savin' 'em for! They swim swim swim a-swim swim! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Preserve the turtles -let's go! (Whistle) Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Preserve the turtles -let's go! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho (Whistle) Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho hum! Heigh-ho!_

" 'Stupid song,' she said. 'Would scare prospective members,' she said. 'Useless contribution to P.O.S.T.,' she said -WELL IT BLOODY IS NOW!" Ron screamed at no one in particular.

"_Something trouble you, I think, master Ron_," a sickeningly serene voice that sounded fake-ly Chinese broke through Ron's fuming.

"Gee, how on earth did you guess?"

_"I am great fortune teller. I have ability to read face good as palm. You face say you troubled."_

"Oh my giddy Aunt."

_"Why you say that? I don't think it mean what you think it mean."_

"AHHHHHHHHH!" Ron threw his arms into the air as though that would solve something, or lessen his frustration, or maybe he needed to stretch, and then stormed off in the direction of a tiny opening in the wall; an opening large enough only for mice, like Ron. I bet, though, that Timothy Churchmouse could have fit through it too, raincoat and all.

_"Where do you travel, master Ron?"_

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!"

"RON!"

Ron turned to find that Hermione had appeared out of nowhere, a stack of papers grasped in her paws, and wearing an expression that rather look as though a former preoccupation had been shattered.

"How do you bloody always manage to show up when you need to scold me?" He asked, incredulously. The dude had a point. Or maybe not. It doesn't really matter though, so whatever.

"Hello, Master Quinn. Is Ron bothering you?"

"Oh bug-"

_"-No, I ask where he go…"_

"Yes, where are you going, Ron? If it's nowhere important I need you to help me hand out these fliers mouse-hole-to-mouse-hole. They're for P.O.S.T. saying when the next meeting is. I was somewhat disappointed by the last turnout-"

"-TURNOUT? NO ONE BLOODY CAME!"

"So?"

"SO? So you're wasting your time with that. No one gives a hoot about sea turtles!"

"I do! At any rate, I still need help with the fliers! Please, Ron?"

"No! One because I don't care about the preservation of sea turtles, and two, I have other things to do, like help HARRY figure out how he's getting the MASKED QUIDDITCH TRYOUTS, for instance."

"Oh, dear. I'd quite forgotten that."

"Yeah, no -"

_"-Who is this Harry, and what is this Quidditch? Master Quinn always happy to help._"

"Of course! I don't know why I didn't think of it before!"

"Probably because you became distracted with a bunch of stupid sea turtles," Ron mumbled under his breath. He rolled his eyes too. Most people and mice roll their eyes like that when they're mumbling something sarcastic or something.

"Master Quinn, Harry Potter is a human friend of mine, who's locked up in his room and needs to escape to go play a sport he really likes. Will you help us figure out an escape plan?"

_"Of course. Does he support the preservation of sea turtles?"_

"I believe he would, although I don't know for certain."

"_Excellent. Master Quinn happy to help. Friend of Mione and friend of sea turtle is friend of Master Quinn."_

"Oh for love of-"

"-Come ON Ron! This way Master Quinn."

The three mice stumbled along the inside of the wall. I say stumbled because Ron was being dragged unwillingly by an extraordinarily energized Hermione, and Master Quinn simply ambled along as best as an old mouse could. As he was being dragged, Ron glanced back at Master Quinn with the intent of telling him how annoying his clomping boots were, when he noticed how gray Master Quinn's fur had become, and how white his mustache. Just a few days ago he had been brown with a black mustache. Something screwy was going on. Ron could feel it. Oh wait, that was just the air he stirred up as he passed by. No… it was Hermione's tail.

"WERMINEE!"

"WHAT NOW?"

"FOE TAHL EH EN MAH MOUFTH!"

"WHAT?"

"FOE TAHL, FOO IDOT! FOE TAHL!"

"HUH? OH, SORRY! BUT THERE WAS NO CALL FOR YOU TO BE NASTY ABOUT IT!"

"LOOK OUT!"

SCREECH! SLIDE! BAM! CRASH! SOUND OF MICE RUNNING INTO A WALL WHICH KIND OF SOUNDS LIKE A CAR HITTING A TREE EXCEPT MUCH QUIETER AND NOT AS METAL-Y SOUNDING SINCE MICE AREN'T MADE OF HARD STUFF LIKE THAT BUT THE WALL SOUNDED A LOT LIKE A TREE WOULD WHEN SMASHED IN TO BECAUSE THEY ARE BOTH MADE OF WOOD AND STUFF.

CLOMP. CLOMP. CLOMP. CLOMP. CLOMP.

"MISTER QUIGGLY, I HAVE A HEADACHE WILL YOU JUST FREAKING STOP OR AT LEAST TAKE OFF THOSE BLOODY BOOTS!"

"Ron," Hermione groaned, clutching her forehead," shut up, you're making it worse. And his name is _Master Quinn_."

"Whatever."

_"Children, is this it?"_

Hermione and Ron lifted their heads to find an entrance from the inside of the wall to the hallway, which happened to be directly across from Harry's closed door. Isn't great how things work out so perfectly?

"Yes!"

_"I have plan."_

"ALREADY!"

"Ron! SHH!"

"YOU SHH!"

"**_RON_**! What's your plan, Master Quinn?"

"He can't have a plan already! Nobody-"

"RON WILL YOU SHUT UP!"

"Okay, okay. Geez."

"_My plan is this. We must find the dragonfly with half a heart. He know what to do_."

Hermione looked thoughtful at this statement while Ron stared at the now gray-furred Master Quinn in utter disbelief. The silence was so silent that, had there been crickets, their chirping would have been super loud. Like, blasting stereo loud. As it was, there were no crickets, chirping or otherwise, and so the mouse trio was left in nothing but the quietest silence. That is, until Ron started to speak. Speaking kind of ruins silences, if you catch my drift.

"A WHAT? DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME-"

"RON, SHH!"

"Do you mean to tell me that a stupid little bug with bloody half a heart is going to get Harry out of his room? You have either got to be insane or -or -or -or SUPER INSANE!"

"Oh, Ron! Don't you ever read?"

"What now, miss I-know-everything-ever-in-print-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah?"

"The dragonfly with half a heart, more commonly known as the semi-vital-organ-mosquito-hawk, has magical powers. Many ancient culturesrevered this beast and-"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But how can the stupid thing function with half a heart, tell me that?"

"Oh, aren't **you** Mr. Observant! I _said_ the semi-vital-organ-mosquito-hawk has _magical _powers, so one can assume that-"

"Ok, ok. Keep your tail on. So, what you're telling me is, we have to go to this stupid bug with a stupid half a heart that pumps stupid blood throughout it's stupid body purely by stupid magic PERHAPS to get a stupid way to get stupid Harry out of his stupid room? AND THAT'S YOUR STUPID PLAN!"

Hermione blinked rapidly while Master Quinn gazed at the door, giving no sign he had been listening, which he might not have been, his paws folded within the folds of his Hawaiian shirt sleeves that were rather on the longish side. Ron just panted heavily since he had just spoken a rather long sentence without pausing for breath. It happens to the best of us. Yeah, that even means me.

"Oh, and you could come up with something better?" Hermione had recovered and was quick to defend her old karate teacher's plan. Some mice just aren't as great as they're cracked up to be, but I assure you, Master Quinn was no such mouse. Trust me.

"_We must leave now, or we never have time_."

"Yes, yes. He's right, Ron. We're wasting time. Let's go!"

And so the three mouseketeers set off on a journey like no other.

Meanwhile…

Harry had been pacing in front of his window for weeks. That's a long time, and if you don't believe me, let me tell you what his floor looked like. I'll tell you what it looked like! It looked like someone had been walking on it back and forth for a couple of weeks while wearing a pair of tennis shoes. That's what it looked like.

Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, Harry stopped pacing and threw himself dejectedly at his window sill, which was free of birds chirping lamely, somewhat to his relief. He sighed, and glanced up at the starless, moonless, cloudless night sky, wishing there was something shiny up in the big black thing above him to look at. A blank sky is pretty boring, and he was already over-taxed in the bored department as it was.

"I feel like I could sing," he said to himself. Now, before judging him and saying he's gone mental, or something for telling himself out loud was his feelings were at the moment, let me explain something to you. He's a nerdy, bespeckled kid that hears Yoda's voice inside his head and has been caged inside a room for weeks, somehow finding a way to eat without ceasing his pacing in some way I can't figure out. He's a tricky little fellow, I'll give him that. Anyway, the point was that, um, that um, that um he, um, well -oh look! Hedwig's doing something! Like flying! Yeah, she's flying! Woohoo! Where was I? Oh, darn. I forget.

So, at any rate, Harry the Bored belted out a song.

"There was a farmer who had a dog, and Bingo was his name-o! B-I-N-G-O! B-I-N-G-O and BINGO was his-"

"GOOOOONNNNNNGGGGGG. That was a gong sound, in case you didn't know.

"So you want to escape do you?" Came a brusque voice from the shadows.

"Why, yes. Yes I do."

"That figures."

"Who… are… you?" Harry asked slowly, yet deliberately.

The shifty looking shadow shifted around a bit, causing Harry to shift his eyes uneasily at the shifty movement of the indefinable shape in the shadows.

"Come into the light…"

The shifty shadow slowly and deliberately put a foot within the boundaries of the yellow glow of Harry's lamp I forgot to mention earlier, the rest of his body following, of course. Turns out the shifty shadow was really a solid living being that rather resembled a very tiny dog with shaggy dark fur. The most extraordinary thing about it, though, was that it was flying. So that means it had wings. They kind of looked like… eagle wings, except they weren't gold with white tips, but bright red with black tips, and little yellow, orange, and white swirly designs swirling around the various feathers that made up the wings. So, in all honesty they didn't actually resemble eagle wings, but I couldn't think of a more appropriate bird to compare them to. Although, parrot might have worked… nah.

"Who ARE you!"

"How rude," sniffed the strange equinine. I mean, canine. Capon? Caninecapon?

"Sorry, it's just, well, I've never seen anything like you before."

"Of course you haven't."

"Huh?"

"You've never called for me before now."

"HUH?"

"Oh for Heaven's sake! I'm your leprechaun dogfather, Sirius Black!"

"MY WHAT?"

"Don't you have a vocabulary class in school? Like Wordly Wise or something? Your lack of advanced terminology is ghastly. I'm heartily ashamed of you my boy. This is what comes of leaving you in the care of muggles."

"Please… could you just… EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT'S GOING ON? I DESERVE TO KNOW! WHO CLEANED THE KITCHEN FLOOR WHILE EVERYONE WAS TOO WEAK TO GET OFF THE COUCH? HUH? WHO BEAT ERIC VON WEASEL IN FROGGERS ADVENTURES? ME! I-"

"-_Good knight_!"

Harry came to an abrupt and completely sudden halt in his ranting.

"I'm sorry, did you say 'night' ?"

"No, no. Actually, what I said was 'knight'."

"Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, well sorry."

"Quite all right. Now, what I was trying to tell you was that I am your leprechaun dogfather, Sirius Black. Of course you know what a godfather is…. right?"

"Yes, yes of course."

"Excellent. Well, then I'm your _dog_father. It's the same thing. Except I'm not a person, although I feel as though that were quite obvious. But, you never can tell with teenagers these days. I am and always have been here to help you, if ever needs be. Now, has this all been clear to you?"

"So far, I think."

"Good lad. Whenever you do need my help, you just sing the song you just sang. You know… 'B-I-N-G-O…' "

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"YOU MEAN TO TELL ME I'VE BEEN COOPED UP IN THIS ROOM FOR TWO BLOODY WEEKS AND YOU COULD'VE HELPED ME ESCAPE BUT I COULDN'T CALL YOU BECAUSE NOBODY TAUGHT ME THE BLOODY SONG?"

"Obviously you didn't need teaching as you sang the song you're supposed to sing just perfectly."

"BUT NOBODY TOLD ME IT WAS THE SONG TO CALL MY FROGFATHER!"

"DOGfather!"

"WHATEVER!"

"CEASE THE VOCIFEROUS RACKET IF YOU PLEASE!"

Whether it was from Blacks' shouting, Harry's embarrassment of his juvenile behavior, or simply from the spit that flew out of Black's mouth during his outburst, we may never know, but all we do know is Harry shut up. Quickly.

"Much better. Now, what is it you need?"

A mosquito-like glint flashed in Harry's eyes, and smiling, he pulled out a piece of parchment from his back pocket.


End file.
